Part of him wanted to check on the girl. He stopped himself, figuring that the last thing she needed to see right now was another soldier in her house. He'd check on her later, get a medic to take her to the aid station, he thought.
More gunfire erupted from another direction.
It wasn't the same shooter. David couldn't tell if it was Hunter or Todd. The bullets were not aimed at him.
He got off the ground, trained his weapon ahead of him while running in the direction of the first shooter. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, heart thundering in his ears. Could he hear the sniper over that? he worried. Dashing across the road, a hundred yards up the hillside more gunfire shattered the air, some of it snapping past his helmet, forcing him to hit the dirt again.
"I got 'em... I got the son of a bitch," Todd crowed in the darkness some distance ahead of him.
His celebration was short-lived.
A blast of high explosives somewhere farther up the trail shook the ground like an earthquake. It was followed by more gunfire in the distance, not a single shooter, multiple firearms, a gun-battle.
"Sounds like the platoon's under fire...come on," called Hunter, as he ran in the direction of the sounds of war.
"On your six..." replied Todd.
As both soldiers raced up the trail, David ran after them, wanting to make them pay for what he suspected they’d done. Losing sight of them as the went over the ridge about a quarter of a mile ahead of him.
When he got there, his chest heaving with the exertion of the run, he sucked in a deep breath. Expelled it then drew another, this time more from shock than need.
The spectacle was devastating.
His platoon was pinned down near the smoking remains of a military convoy. Several of the vehicles still on fire, the flames providing ample light for the insurgents.
There was a nest of them on the ridge and they were shooting at anything that moved below. Several bodies of American soldiers were on the road. Not moving. There was no way to tell if they were still breathing or dead.
He could not see which way Hunter or Todd had gone.
David knew he had to protect his men. From his position on the ridge he figured that if he could sneak along the opposite side of the trail, well off the road, he might be able to get the jump on the rebels. With any luck, if he got close enough he could toss a grenade or two and take them out. It was risky and dangerous. The odds were not stacked in his favor.
It has to be done, he thought grimly, not relishing his chances. Otherwise the insurgents could stay put and pick off members of his platoon at will. They were on higher ground.
He didn’t hesitate, plunging forward, darting among the rocks and brush, sparse as it was. He almost made it.
One of the rebels spotted him. A cry went out, alerting the others. Two of them started shooting at him while the rest of the fighters kept his comrades pinned down.
One round slammed into David’s arm and another in the shoulder. Staggering from the impact of bullets in his flesh, he fell to his knees muttering unsavory comments about the renegade shooters, almost dropping the two grenades he clutched in one hand.
Gritting his teeth for a moment, he used them to pull the pins -- hurling both with all his considerable might -- forward into the nest.
Seconds later, his efforts were rewarded with a series of powerful explosions.
The initial blast knocked him backwards.
He lay stunned for several seconds. Face coated in dirt and soot, he eventually sat up, disregarding the pain of his injuries and managed to get to his feet.
Eyeing the shadows, his heart was hammering like crazy. Checking the area for more shooters. This might not be over yet, he thought grimly.
He didn’t find any.
Stumbling wearily down the hillside calling out, worry in his voice. Were his friends alive? He lost his footing, fell on one knee and struggled to get up again before trudging on.
"They're dead! The insurgents are dead!”
Not bragging, he shouted the words matter-of- fact. Action equaling reaction. It had to be done to save his unit. David licked his lips, his mouth was dry again and he felt queasy.
“Lieutenant? Gunnery sergeant? Can you hear me? You guys alright?"
"That you Bowen?"
"Yes sir."
The lieutenant rose from his hiding place.
"I'm sure as hell glad to see you... The medic told me that you had food poisoning," the lieutenant explained, walking up to him on the road, a big smile on his dirty face.
"No sir...I don't... I ate the same thing you did." David paused as more members of the platoon abandoned their cover, "Sorry I'm late guys." He apologized as more men came up to him.
"Man what are you talking about...if you'd been with us... Your ass would have been pinned down too," theorized one private.
"You saved the day... Bowen.”
“You’re a freaking hero, man!”
“Perfect timing," praised another soldier, slapping him on the back.
David grunted, wincing in pain.
“Hey he’s hurt, get a medic!” the soldier called, “Sorry man...I didn’t see.”
Most of the other comments being lost in the extensive uproar of thankfulness and congratulation. The men in his unit were all very happy to be alive.
In the calm that followed, a corpsman bandaged his wounds and tended to the surviving members of the convoy.
One specialist was pulled out of the burning wreckage of a truck and placed on the ground near where David sat at the edge of the road. She was a young woman.
The first pink rays of sunrise were lighting the sky as the medic did his best to stop her bleeding, she was badly hurt, her abdomen had a hole through it about the size of a coffee cup. David watched as the medic glanced over at the lieutenant, faintly shook his head and moved on to the next victim.
The nod was a death sentence. She wasn't going to make it.
David couldn't see her face, there was too much blood. She was small and had dark hair. He didn't know what compelled him but he moved to her. Squatting down, instinctively reaching over with his uninjured arm, he picked up her hand. It was covered in blood.
Her head wobbled slightly with the movement of her arm.
"She's gone corporal," the medic reassured him in a solemn tone.
"I don't think anybody should die alone," David replied, not the least bit dissuaded by the finality of the medic’s tone. His shoulders felt knotted beneath the uniform.
Up to his elbows in the blood of another patient, the corpsman raised his own shoulders in a small shrug, the gesture indicating that he wouldn’t deny a dying girl a moment of comfort.
Her hand was tiny in David’s, it still felt warm. He gently squeezed it, her fingers moved slightly. Had he imagined that? he wondered.
There was something about her that felt familiar to David even though the two had never met. He sat there like that, holding her hand until the earth started to fold in around him, dragging him under like quicksand as he clawed and clawed, trying to get back to the surface. His lungs burning as he struggled to get air, he felt her hand slip away.
David Bowen woke up screaming in the bedroom of his Atlanta condo. Now 29, he felt confused. Like he was on the same battlefield that he'd left six years earlier.
Drenched in sweat, he sat up on the side of his bed, head in his hands, thoughts in turmoil, still twisted by the nightmare as he tried to control the shaking. He could still smell the bloody, dead bodies, the scent of combat and the smoldering wreckage.
What was going on that had triggered the return of his traumatic nightmares?